Papa

His hands danced across the page, a simple sign of remembering. His eyes were glazed and distant, but his heart was alive. It is all I will ever remember of him. I watched him through the lenses; gathering thoughts and unraveling sunken ships beneath his chest He cried. I held his hand for a while. It was cold and sent a chill swimming like a coral snake up my arm. I wanted to cry, but it was never an option. His stare was blank. The paper, with words so poised and elegant, perfect curves and grace, His stare disgraced his words. I could see inside of them. These words were those of great philosophers and expeditions, words that could be used to create monuments or destroy cities. His words were beautiful and free. He lay there only responsive to my touch My hands so much smaller My mind so much smaller